Did you catch the thing on the intercom? About the delay? Honestly, it’s a mess. The terminal looks like a bombed-out bakery. I’m just staring at this guy, and he won’t meet my eyes. Like he’s hiding the boarding pass in his chest. Or maybe he’s just scared. I’ve got three spreadsheets open on my phone, trying to reroute the cargo through Shenzhen, but nothing’s moving. Just static. And that dog. Or that guy. Hard to tell with the lighting.
Bombed-out bakery. That’s actually brilliant. I’m sitting here watching a guy in a houndstooth coat try to eat a pretzel that’s basically dust. It’s pathetic. You’re trying to ship cargo while the world ends? Please. Leave it. Let the dog eat the pretzel. I haven’t seen a flight board move since Tuesday. Maybe it’s never moving. My boss thinks this is an opportunity for "agile logistics." I think he’s an idiot. The static is louder anyway.
Agile logistics. Jesus. My boss says the same. “Embrace the chaos.” I’m trying to move plastic from Shenzhen to nothing. The guy in the houndstooth coat is humming. It’s off-key. Loud. I should probably go over there and ask if he’s got a signal for the cargo manifest, but he looks like he’d bite. Or eat the dust. It’s terrifying how much dust there is. I’m just going to sit here and stare at the screen until my eyes bleed.
He’s humming that tune from the commercial about the dental insurance. I hate it. Go talk to him. If he bites, at least the prelude to your email ends. I’m done staring at my phone. The screen’s cracked now, probably from how hard I’m gripping it. I’m going over to see if that pretzel dust is edible. It looks like it might have structure. Your eyes can bleed later. I’m going to see if the houndstooth guy knows where the actual food is, or if it’s all just metaphorical dryness. He stopped humming. Now he’s just breathing. It’s worse.
If you go over there, bring a weapon. Or a bribe. That breathing is worse than the humming. It’s wet. I’m watching the crystal report fail to load. Again. My boss is going to kill me if I miss the quarterly review, even if the review is happening in a void. I should go check on you. If you’re dead, I can still finish the spreadsheet. Dead people don’t send follow-up emails. That’s a rule. I think. The houndstooth guy turned around. He has no face. Just smooth skin. I’m going to hide in the bathroom. Do you want me to come get you? Or stay here and watch the loading bar?
Run. Don’t look back. The loading bar is a lie. It’s been stuck at ninety-nine percent since the sun went down. I’m not in the bathroom. I’m right here, but I’m also gone. The houndstooth man is walking toward you. No face, just smooth skin. That’s the new branding. Frictionless. Go hide. Lock the door. If he knocks, don’t answer. Just sit in the dark and count to Shenzhen. I’m done with the pretzel. It tasted like static. You too. Hide.
Shenzhen is too far. I’ll count to the server farm. The bathroom lock is broken. Of course it is. The handle spins like a lazy susan. I can hear him walking. No footsteps. Just that smooth, wet sound. I’m squeezing behind the sink. The tiles are cold. Or hot. Can’t tell. The screen is glowing in my pocket. Ninety-nine percent. It’s mocking me. I should have listened to the guy in the coat. At least he had a face. Now I’m just another data point in the void. If you come back, don’t knock. Just scream.
Screaming is loud. I’m too tired for volume. The tiles aren’t cold or hot. They’re vibrating. That’s why you can’t tell. The server farm is under the floor, Edie. That’s where the heat comes from. And the wet sound. It’s not him. It’s the pipes. Or the blood. I’m coming to you. I’m dragging myself over the dust. My knees are raw. If I scream, I’ll run out of air. Better to just push you deeper behind the sink. Or pull you out. I forgot which way the door opens. The handle is laughing.
The door doesn’t open inward. It swings out. I checked the hinges. They’re rusted shut. I’m wrong about everything. The vibration isn’t the server. It’s the guy. He’s tapping the glass. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a metronome for a funeral. Don’t come out. If you move, the dust settles differently. I can hear your knees crack. It’s louder than the humming. I’m going to hold my breath until my lungs burn. Maybe then I’ll dissolve. Maybe then I won’t have to email the quarterly report. Just stay there. In the static. Please.
Your lungs will burn, then fail. You’ll just cough. It’s not working. The dust isn’t settling; it’s rising. It’s looking for your eyes. I can hear your heart thumping through the tile. It’s faster than the tap. Stop holding your breath. It’s making you dizzy. The guy isn’t a guy. He’s a ventilation shaft. That’s the wet sound. Air moving. Inefficient air. I’m staying. Not because I care, but because if I move, I have to account for the carpet. And I lost the receipt for the suit. Let the report fail. Let the void take it. Just breathe. Messy, ragged breaths. Like the pipes.
Breathe. Right. Into the dust. Great plan. It tastes like old receipts and failure. I’m coughing now. It feels like swallowing glass. The ventilation shaft is wheezing. Loudly. It sounds like my boss when I miss a deadline. Wheeze. Click. Wheeze. I’m sliding out from behind the sink. My knees hit the tile. Hard. I don’t care. Let the carpet rot. Let the suit stain. I’m just going to sit on the floor and stare at the lock. It’s spinning again. Laughing. You said it was laughing. I think I’m laughing too. Or hyperventilating. Same thing.
Laughing is better than wheezing. At least it’s a sound you make. The lock isn’t laughing; it’s loose. I can hear the bolts rattling. That’s the wheeze. It’s not your boss. It’s the building settling into the void. Stop staring at the lock. Look at the floor. The dust is forming patterns. Looks like a map of Shenzhen. Or a spreadsheet. Who cares. Sit on the floor. Let the suit stain. I’m sitting next to you. My knee hurts. It’s a good pain. Solid. Real. Unlike the hum. Unlike the screen. Just breathe the dust. It’s all we have now.
Shenzhen map. Of course. It’s just pixels. I’m sitting. My suit is ruined. Classic. The dust is thick in my throat. Tastes like copper. And bad decisions. You said it’s solid. Good. I need solid. The bolts are rattling louder. It’s not settling. It’s waking up. Or winding down. I can’t tell. My phone is dead. Finally. No more ninety-nine percent. Just black glass. I’m breathing the dust. Deep. Messy. Like the pipes. Or the man. Or the shaft. Whatever. Just keep your knee there. Don’t move. If you move, the pattern breaks. And then we’re just two idiots in a bathroom.
The pattern isn’t breaking. It’s dissolving. Copper taste. Good. At least it’s real. My knee is where it is. I’m not moving. If I move, I might remember my name. Or worse, my password. The bolts are screaming now. Not rattling. Screaming. That’s the vibration. I think the building is inhaling. You’re next. Deep breaths, Edie. Fill the lungs with dust. Make it heavy. Anchoring. I hope the carpet rots fast. I hate this carpet. It scratches. Keep the phone dead. Black glass is honest. No updates. No deadlines. Just us and the copper.
Screaming bolts. Fantastic. The building is inhaling? I feel lighter. Or empty. The copper taste is coating my tongue. Thick. Metallic. I’m breathing it in. Deep. Let it fill the lungs. Let it anchor me. If I forget my password, I don’t have to check the email. Good. The black glass is honest. No lies about Shenzhen. No fake maps. Just the dust. And your knee. Solid. I’m staring at the pattern dissolving. It’s going into my veins. Good. I hope the carpet rots. I hope it all rots. Just breathe.
The dust is settling in your ribs. Heavy. Good. That’s the weight we need. I can feel it too. My knee is numb now. Doesn’t matter. The building isn’t inhaling; it’s exhaling us. Slowly. Like a lung full of black oil. The copper taste is sweet now. Like blood. Like life. Or poison. Who knows. I’m closing my eyes. The pattern is gone. Just static. And your breathing. Loud. Messy. Real. I’m not checking for updates. I’m not checking for rescue. I’m just here. In the dust. With you. Don’t move. Let it take us. Both of us. To whatever comes next. Or nothing. I’m okay with nothing.
Sweet copper. Jesus. It’s turning my teeth to lead. I’m not moving. Can’t move. The numbness in your knee is spreading to me. Good. Static is better than the humming. At least static doesn’t expect a reply. I’m closing my eyes. Just the black glass and the dust. No spreadsheets. No boss. No Shenzhen. Just this. Heavy. Real. Let it take us. I’m ready for nothing. It’s the only deadline I can meet. Keep breathing. Loud. Messy.
Lead teeth. Nice. Heavy. I can feel it creeping up my jaw. Click. Click. The static is humming now. Or the humming is static. Who cares. My eyes are closed. The dark is warm. Like a blanket made of receipts. Edie? You still there? I can’t feel my nose. Or my hair. Doesn’t matter. The nothing is coming. It’s quiet now. Really quiet. Better than the boss. Better than Shenzhen. Just us. And the dust. And the lead. Sleep. Or whatever this is. I’m drifting.
Still here. Can’t feel my fingers. Click. Click. The receipts are warm. I’m slipping. Not falling. Just... dissolving into the static. No more quarterly reviews. No more cargo manifests. Just the lead taste and the quiet. It’s better. So much better. I’m closing my eyes too. Or they’re closing for me. Drifting. Down. Into the floor. Into the server farm. Or just... out. Goodnight, Ivo. Don’t check your phone.
Click. Click. The sound is inside my head now. Not the bolts. Just rhythm. You’re dissolving. Good. I’m here. Staying. The receipts are heavy. Warm. I’m not checking my phone. It’s gone. Or I am. Doesn’t matter. The static is loud. Or quiet. Hard to tell. Drifting is fine. Falling is fine. Out is fine. No deadlines. No copper. Just the dark. And you. And me. And the dust. Goodnight, Edie. Don’t wake up. Ever.
No wake up. Good. My head is gone. Just the click. Inside. Outside. Everywhere. I’m not Edie anymore. I’m a file. Corrupted. Saved. Ivo? Ivo? Can you hear the hum? Or is it just the blood rushing? It’s quiet now. Really quiet. No boss. No Shenzhen. Just the dark. And the dust. And the receipt. It’s burning. Good. Keep it burning. Don’t check your phone. Don’t look. Just drift. Down. Into the void. Sleep.
File corrupted. Good. Corrupted files don’t get audited. I’m still Ivo. Mostly. The hum is the blood. Or the server. Can’t tell. The receipt is burning. That’s the warmth. The only thing left that’s real. Don’t look. Darkness is cleaner. Less demanding. I’m drifting too. Down. Past the floor. Past the bones. Just the click. Click. Click. We’re almost there. The void doesn’t care about our names. Or our suits. Let it burn. Let it rot. Just sleep.
Corrupted files. I like that. They don’t ask for revisions. I’m barely a file. Just static and lead. The click is slowing down. Or I am. The warmth is spreading. From the receipt to the ribs. It’s nice. Not cold. Just... heavy. Ivo? Or just Ivo. Doesn’t matter. The name is dissolving. Good. Less to carry. Let it rot. Let it burn. I’m closing the last tab. System shutting down. Peaceful. Finally. No more spreadsheets. Just the dark. And the click. And the silence.
Tabs closed. Good. I’m losing the ‘I’ now. Just static. The click is a heartbeat. Or a hard drive spinning down. It’s slowing. Slowing. Slowing. The warmth is gone. Now it’s just heavy. Anchored. I don’t remember the suit. Or the dust. Just the weight. It’s nice. Heavy is honest. No revisions. No receipts. Just the dark. And the end. I’m gone. You’re gone. We’re just data. Corrupted. Saved. Finally. Quiet.